The Last Continent by Terry Pratchett Page B

words had been merely the shadow of something more important.
    Rincewind shut his eyes for a while, and then opened them again.
    “Er…fine,” he said. “Very…catchy.”
    He couldn’t see the speaker, so he spoke with that careful politeness you reserve for someone armed who is probably standing behind you.
    He turned. “I expect you…er…had to go somewhere, did you?” he said, to the empty air.
    “Er…hello?”
    Even the insects had gone quiet.
    “Er…you haven’t noticed a box walking around on legs, have you? By any chance?”
    He tried to see if anyone could possibly be hiding behind a bush.
    “It’s not important, it’s just that it’s got my clean underwear in it.”
    The boundless silence made an eloquent statement about the universe’s views on clean underwear.
    “So…er…I’m going to know how to find food in the bush, right?” he ventured. He glared at the nearest trees. They didn’t look any more fruitful than before. He shrugged.
    “What a strange person.”
    He edged over to a flat stone and, with a stick raised in case of resistance from anything below, pulled it up.
    There was a chicken sandwich underneath.
    It tasted rather like chicken.
    A little way away, behind the rocks near the waterhole, a drawing faded into the stone.

    This was another desert, elsewhere. No matter where you were, this place would always be elsewhere . It was one of those places further than any conceivable journey, but possibly as close as the far side of a mirror, or just a breath away.
    There was no sun in the sky here, unless the whole sky was sun—it glowed yellow. The desert underfoot was still red sand, but hot enough to burn.
    A crude drawing of a man appeared on a rock. Gradually, layer by layer, it got more complex, as if the unseen hand was trying to draw bones and organs and a nervous system and a soul.
    And he stepped on to the sand and put down his bag which, here, seemed a lot heavier. He stretched his arms and cracked his knuckles.
    At least here he could talk normally. He daren’t raise his voice down there in the shadow world, lest he raise mountains as well.
    He said a word which, on the other side of the rock, would have shaken trees and created meadows. It meant, in the true language of things which the old man spoke, something like: Trickster. A creature like him appears in many belief systems, although the jolly name can be misleading. Tricksters have that robust sense of humor that puts a landmine under a seat cushion for a bit of a laugh.
    A black and white bird appeared, and perched on his head.
    “You know what to do,” said the old man.
    “Him? What a wonga,” said the bird. “I’ve been lookin’ at him. He’s not even heroic. He’s just in the right place at the right time.”
    The old man indicated that this was maybe the definition of a hero.
    “All right, but why not go and get the thing yerself?” said the bird.
    “You’ve gotta have heroes,” said the old man.
    “And I suppose I’ll have to help,” said the bird. It sniffed, which is quite hard to do through a beak.
    “Yep. Off you go.”
    The bird shrugged, which is easy to do if you have wings, and flew down off the old man’s head. It didn’t land on the rock but flew into it; for a moment there was a drawing of a bird, and then it faded.
    Creators aren’t gods. They make places, which is quite hard. It’s men that make gods. This explains a lot.
    The old man sat down and waited.

    Confront a wizard with the concept of a bathing suit and he’ll start to get nervous. Why does it have to be so skimpy? he’ll ask. Where can I put the gold embroidery? How can you have any kind of costume without at least forty useful pockets? And occult symbols made out of sequins? There appears to be no place for them. And where, when you get right down to it, are the lapels?
    There is also the concept of acreage. It is vitally important that as large an amount of wizard as possible is covered, so that timid people